


Hunters, The Both of Us

by Hancockles



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Love/Hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:05:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7449034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hancockles/pseuds/Hancockles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hunter Agnes has joined with Alfred, but he is confusing, and intense, and overbearing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunters, The Both of Us

It’s like this: she has always been afraid of him. It’s like this: he’s been a mystery since day one. When he winds his fingers in her hair, will he pull? When he touches her face, thumb against her cheek, will he draw back and strike her? Kind words turn cruel with a change of inflection. Perhaps one day he’ll think to mock her. And there’s plenty to choose from: hands always knotted anxiously, a meek voice, the mole on her left cheek. Glasses. No one expects her to be a hunter. She thinks it of herself, as well.

She has noticed his peculiarities and the way he’s so casually cruel. A beast killed by him may as well have not existed at all for how thorough he is with his beatings. Animals – people – rended and transformed back into their basic components: meat, blood, sinew. The sound of him cracking bones, the hem of her cloak stained red and brown with blood, the sickly smell of copper, the dark and dank streets and alleyways of Yharnam. This is her life now, she supposes.

But she tries to bring normalcy where she can. As in her old life she assumes the role of caretaker. Mending tears, healing wounds. (Small ones. The mangled limbs she sees on the streets she can do nothing about, and she refuses to look at them anyway.) Depending on his mood, Alfred is careless with his things. A tear here or there; needing only a needle and thread, she fixes them good as new. Depending on her mood, she doesn’t mind doing this.

On a quiet day, she sets up to mend the shawl he drapes with his cloak. He calls it holy. The fix must be done immediately. She takes the needle out of her mouth, pricks her finger. A drop of blood falls.

“Let me,” Alfred says. He kisses her finger, draws the tip into his mouth. When he’s finished, the blood is gone. But the spot will well up again, he’ll say, “Are you alright?” and she’ll say yes. Her blood, his blood: to him, there’s little difference. He drinks hers up like it’s vital. She had some of his, too, when they first met. He carved a line across his palm, held it to her mouth. Then she was a real executioner, like him.

Not so different from the Vilebloods, are we? This she doesn’t say.

She cannot forget her old life: her lady’s hair still sits in place in the piece of jewelry around her neck. Agnes studies the dark fibers, running her fingers over the glass, whispering, wondering. Why did I get sick? Why did you send me away? Why did you send me here? To have taken care of someone your whole life and then to be sent away seems the greatest betrayal of all.

“What have I done? What did I do?” she whispers.

When unpleasant thoughts come, she slaps herself on the mouth, once, twice, using only her fingers. When her thoughts continue she pinches her arm until she bruises. Once, she takes a knife to herself. She angles the blade toward her inner thigh, holds it against her flesh with a trembling hand until blood trickles. This way she stays until the thoughts pass. It’s the only way she knows how to deal with what she feels. That gnawing, empty feeling of abandonment – what else is there now? Being in this strange place makes her heart heavy.

Alfred catches her sometimes, during her rituals, and holds her hands by the wrists until she stops crying. Always, she puts up a fight. Let me do the one thing that soothes me–

“None of this,” he says. “No more.”

“I thought I would go home,” she says, quietly.

“You have a higher purpose now,” Alfred replies. It’s all so simple to him. He lets go of her, and Agnes grips a fistful of cloth.

“I had someone who loved me, Alfred. Someone who cared-”

“You have someone like that right here. In front of you,” he says. He brings his hand up to her cheek, brushes a tear from it. She makes a move to back away. His thumb, rough, jitters once. Her pulse quickens; she expects a blow. How true were his words?

After some silence, she says, “I want to go home.”

He pulls his hand away quickly, clenches it into a fist. But when he moves toward her it’s with tenderness, not anger, and he pulls her close. Warm, strong arms encircle her. The material of his clothing smells of sweat, of the countryside of Yharnam, of the sweet tinge of beast blood. Much like him, it’s almost overpowering. The way he strokes her hair keeps her there, close, forehead against his shoulder. There she’ll stay until he decides it’s been long enough and that they should keep moving. Cainhurst, always ahead.

How long have they been in each other's’ company? He knows her peculiarities, but not why she has them. He knows the length of her hair, reaches for the ends of it in the dark, to touch, as if for comfort, but he knows not how she prefers to wear it. Always looking ahead. Endlessly dedicated. A polished surface with rage simmering just below. When he leans in to kiss her, he whispers into her mouth, “Agnes. Delicate Agnes. You will break if I do not handle you carefully.” Eyes open, she thinks: Who is that? Is that me, to you?

Yes, always looking ahead. She walks behind. He cannot see her, and thinks not to check for her presence.

It’s this: she hates him. She loves him. She will bear it as long as she has to.


End file.
